Here's to the Broken
by jpetes
Summary: Kurt's world begins to crumble, with no one there to help but Blaine.
1. Brief Relief

Hello.

I'm fairly new to this, so please bear with me.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters.

* * *

"Bro, _cut_ it out."

The remark was simple, harmless even, but it drew the attention of the fragile being in the fourth row, third seat from the left. His shocking azure eyes locked with Finn Hudson's fist as it balled up, swung back, then made contact with Puck's arm, all in one smooth, swift motion.

These actions weren't uncommon; if anything, it was a rarity to see Puck and Finn sitting solemnly in class, devoid of their usual habit of trading punches and juvenile sense of humor.

So why had this action attract the attention of Kurt Hummel?

Any observant soul would have found Kurt's behavior peculiar, and been able to come up with an answer instantaneously. His fidgety nature that wracked his body, rims of red that bordered his eyes, slender fingers that grappled at loose strings, fumbled mindlessly with buttons, tugged persistently at the cuffs of his sleeves.

But let's be honest. What high school student is able to tear the focus away from themselves for a brief moment to occupy their concern with that of a loved one, let alone a friend or companion?

The monotone voice that was sounding somewhere from the front of the class was cut off abruptly as the bell shrieked, sending the students into a flurry to hastily shove papers into folders and binders and books. They rose from their seats and trudged to the next class in a manner that wasn't unlike that of a hoard of cows being shuffled around the barn, fattened with fodder, preparing for slaughter. Kurt shuffled to his locker, his fingers mechanically twiddling his lock and swinging the door open.

No sooner had the door banged against the opposite locker than he felt a huge mass jolt his shoulder, knocking his petite frame into the metal wall. This assault was accompanied by an onslaught of threats, names, insults – nothing he was a stranger to. He had endured worse. Assuming the worst had passed, he turned around to head to English lest he arrive late again, but it appeared that the worst was yet to come.

At 6'0 and 217lbs, David Karofsky was perhaps the most feared jock of the school. His square jaw line, thick eyebrows, and cold, hardened eyes gave him the exterior necessary to cause even the administration of the school to hold their breaths when he walk by in the silent hopes he would leave them alone.

His massive frame alone was enough to spark fear into the bravest of students, and Kurt could feel his stomach clench as he registered the object clutched in David's hand and gang standing menacingly behind him. David's eyes narrowed, thin lips parted to reveal a hint of a yellow-toothed sneer, his hand lunged foreword – shards of dyed blue ice parted from the cup, hitting Kurt full force in the face.

To say that the pain was excruciating would have been an understatement. His face was burning wildly, his eyes were screaming as the blue dye seeped in, his hair became matted and sticky. This alone would have been enough, but it was what came after that hurt worse than the physical assault.

"Fag."

"Queer."

"Homo."

The words were thrown as easily and casually as spears, unforgiving and potentially fatal. The scars from spears would heal after a matter of time, however. The scars imprinted by words would not.

Kurt swiped at his eyes desperately, using his sleeve to help regain his vision. The jocks were gone. The hallways were buzzing, this act of hate unnoticed by every student who hurried by without even sparing Kurt a second glance. _Shit._ He could feel it coming.

Overtaken by a sudden, unpredicted urge, Kurt retreated to a bathroom as the bell rang throughout the halls, ensuring that the bathrooms would be empty. Bursting through the doors, Kurt ducked into a stall and locked the door without even pausing to examine his appearance in the grime-streaked mirror.

He balled up a wad of toilet paper, but rather than use it to clear his face of the soggy remains of what would have been an enjoyable summer treat, he stored it between his lips. The stall was cramped, but he didn't dare venture out, preferring to perform this necessary action in his secluded solitary haven.

He ripped open his bag, tearing savagely through the debris that cluttered the bottom, and eventually tore open the pocket on the inside. His hands grappled around frantically, albeit with an air of cautiousness that he had not used w plunging his hand into the bag, and closed around the small metal object with an air of triumph.

It was then that he yanked up his sleeve, and without hesitating, pressed down, a shudder of relief spreading throughout his body.


	2. Discovery

"Where were you?"

Ducking quietly into class, unnoticed by Mrs. Morrison, Kurt took his seat besides Blaine, averting his eyes lest they give him away.

"Bathroom," Kurt responded, pretending to dig through his belongings. He refused to meet Blaine's gaze; he would not become a burden, he would not make this a big deal, and he would most certainly not involve Blaine.

"What's o—"

"_Blaine!_"

Mrs. Morrison's shrill voice cut him off before he could further his inquiry, and Kurt silently thanked her. Blaine met her stern gaze with round eyes and an expression that radiated innocence, and although her frown remained, he saw it falter as she turned back to the board.

"Why is your hair wet?" Blaine murmured.

"We went outside for PE and I wanted to shower before class started again," Kurt replied. He threw in a grimace for added effect, letting Blaine know that it was necessary, despite his disgust towards the bacteria-rampant showers.

Truthfully, he had washed up in the bathroom, removing all traces of blue slushie and shame from his body to ward off any suspicion. He didn't have to look up to know that Blaine saw right through him, but had accepted this statement without challenging it.

The class dragged on slowly without incidence or interruption, the droll of Mrs. Morrison's voice acting as a verbal anesthetic to the spirits of the class. But whenever Kurt noticed Blaine jotting down notes or scribbling furiously, he stole a glance, mentally savoring each of his qualities that composed the beautiful boy that sat next to him.

His jet black hair was slicked back in an attempt to control the mass of curls that dominated his scalp, giving him the look of someone who had stepped out of the movie _Grease_. His thick black eyebrows, which knotted together whenever he slipped deep into thought, framed his eyes and emphasized the flicks of hazel that spattered across his cornea.

Today he donned a plaid red t-shirt, khakis with the cuffs rolled up, and his trademark bowtie. His tongue flicked across his lips occasionally, as he tapped his foot to a silent beat and struggled to grasp the theme of whatever Mrs. Morrison was trying to convey.

Focusing too intently, Kurt blushed feverishly when he realized Blaine had caught him staring. Internally, a battle raged inside of Kurt, his conflicting emotions and desires at war with each other.

_He's too good for you. How do you expect to get someone like him? You're a loser_. _A mess. A fuck-up. Don't get your hopes up._ _ He can get anyone in the school, what makes you think he'll settle for _you_?_

Kurt attempted to rid himself of these thoughts that plagued him, shaking his head as if there was a persistent, bothersome fly that refused to leave.

Engrossed in his thoughts, Kurt hadn't realized that class was ending until the bell screeched throughout the school, sending the students scattering in every which way in a flurry of papers and chatter.

"Don't forget to study, there will be a test tomorrow!" Mrs. Morrison interjected, before returning to her desk. Kurt felt his spirits lift as he walked with Blaine out of class, taking pleasure in the pointless conversation that Blaine was engaging him in.

"For this week's assignment, I was thinking of doing a cover of one of Katy Perry's songs, or maybe Lady GaGa's. Y'know, something that's modern but still has some depth to their lyrics. What do you think?"

They had arrived at Kurt's locker, and Blaine was leaning against the adjacent lockers, waiting for an answer as Kurt transferred the contents of his bag.

"Mm, definitely. I'd say go with something that's not too overdone though, what about Maroon 5? _She Will be Loved_ is a classic, there's no way you could go wr—"

"Kurt," Blaine interrupted. Kurt looked up to find that Blaine was no longer sifting through his mental playlist of songs that he had stored, but rather furrowing his eyebrows as the corners of his mouth tugged down slightly. "What happened to your arm?"


	3. Bitter Freedom

Nonexistent hands were wringing Kurt's stomach with the same motions that were used to wring out the contents of a wet rag. Except they couldn't be nonexistent, for the pain and terror that flooded Kurt was quite certainly real. He casually brushed his arm against his side, letting the fabric slide down that had ridden up and exposed his marred flesh, revealing his inner demons.

"Hm? What do you mean?" he asked, trying to mirror Blaine's befuddled expression who was trying to make sense of what he had seen.

"Your... your arm," Blaine faltered, tearing his eyes away from Kurt's wrist, which was now concealed from his view, and meeting his eyes instead. Kurt forced a laugh, as if he had just caught onto what Blaine had been implying, and was regarding this idea as nothing short of implausible and absurd.

"Oh, that's... that's nothing. I was taking care of my neighbor's cat, and when I went to pet him, he… yeah," he finished somewhat lamely.

Before he was given the chance to respond, an agitated shout of "Blaine... Blaine!" came from behind the two boys. Wes, one of Blaine's friends who had transferred to McKinley as well, came swooping in on the two.

"Hey, man, are you busy after school today? I need your help with something," he said, and without waiting for a response stole him from Kurt. Silently thanking whatever unseen force that had granted Kurt with this distraction, Kurt stowed the rest of his books into his bag upon realizing that it was the end of the day and hurried out of the school before he was cornered by the prying eyes of Blaine again.

x-x-x-x-x

The clock flashed 6:43pm. Kurt lay in bed. Not sleeping, not moving, just simply lying there and prolonging the inevitable for as long as was humanly possible. His dad was out – campaigning, maybe? – and had left nothing but a note sending love and some leftover pasta in the fridge. He had the house to himself, free to do whatever he pleased.

His mind contemplated each possibility, which ranged from a movie marathon to walking around the house naked to sipping some of Burt's beers, but none of these alternatives were deemed as appealing as the one his subconscious had decided upon before he even came into his room.

When he was able to lie on the bed for no longer, Kurt got up and went to rub the tears from his eyes, only to find that they had already dried into his cheeks and pillow. His motions were slow, deliberate, and zombie-like as he rifled through the contents of his drawer, among which were the latest issue of _People_ magazine, a dented box of Kleenex tissues and other various trinkets that had been unable to find a home anywhere else. At last, his fingers closed around the leather handle, prying the treasure from its hiding place with an air of victory.

It was the pocketknife he had been presented with when he was only ten-years-old. Having been given it as a rite of passage, Kurt found it ironic how it represented how far he had come, how strong he had been, the challenges he had faced – and here he was, using it to indulge in his self-destructive tendencies. Normally he would have gone off into his bathroom, but as he was blessed with the freedom of having the house to himself, he simply sank to the ground, his back pressed against the frame of his bed.

His face registered little emotion, but he felt his body going through the motions as his sleeve was pushed back. His heart fluttered anxiously – surely by now it must have recognized the impending pain that was about to come – and his breathing became shallow, _exhilarated _even, as the blade pressed down.

He dragged it along his forearm, gently at first, with a nature that was almost maternal and tender, so that only a white line was left as evidence that pressure had been applied. This was the motivation he needed, and the knife grazed his arm several more times. Beads of blood dotted each slice. _Not enough_. He went in again, the knife a flash of silver as it bit deeper into his arm, splitting his skin.

Only now was Kurt able to release the emotions that he had been unable to show during the day. The numbness was now tangible, turned to pain and reflected on the outside of his body as well as inside. He crawled to the bathroom, applying wads of tissues to the broken skin to stem the streams that were trickling down his arm. As his rapid breathing slowed, he pressed his back to the bathroom wall, not bothering to staunch the stream that was now trickling from his eyes as well.

All of a sudden, the door bell rang.


	4. Vulnerable

"Kurt? Are you there?" It was Blaine.

_Shitshitshitshitshit_ –

Kurt tore a trail of toilet paper from the holder, twisting it into a makeshift bandage around his arm. He swiped the tears from underneath his eyes, jerked his sleeve down over the damage, and, without bothering to clean up the mess he had left behind, slammed his bathroom door shut and turned off the light. His unsteady hands flattened down the flyaway strands of hair as he jumped down the stairs two at a time, arriving at the front door and calmly pulling it open.

"H...Hey," Kurt smiled breathlessly.

"Hey. Sorry, I... I know this is unexpected – I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop by. I was wondering if I could borrow your homework sheet for English to scan. I need it for tonight and I forgot mine at school," he said sheepishly.

"Uh yeah, yeah that's fine," Kurt replied, contorting his face into what he desperately hoped resembled a smile. "Uh, my bag's upstairs let me get it. You can come in."  
Blaine obliged, and stepped inside the Hummel household, shuffling his feet on the doormat so as not to track in dirt. Kurt hurried upstairs, and was rifling through his bag when he heard footsteps behind him. Unaware that he had been followed, Kurt started slightly and opened his mouth to say something but Blaine interrupted.

"Are you okay? You seemed kind of... off today, and I just wanted to make sure Karofsky wasn't giving you shit or anything like that," he offered meekly.

"No, I've just been really tired lately. Haven't been getting enough sleep I guess, my dad's been really on me about getting my grades up. Oh, uh, here's the homework," Kurt replied, handing over the sheet they'd been given in class.  
"Thank… _Jesus Christ_, Kurt –" Blaine looked down in horror at the sheet, as did Kurt, and only after several seconds did he realize that Blaine's shock wasn't directed at the homework, but instead at the patches of blood that were slowly soaking through Kurt's sleeve.

"No, I—" Kurt stammered, but he realized it was no use. Blaine's eyes were accusing and piercing as they tried to penetrate his sleeve, but upon failing searched for the answer in his eyes instead.

"Show me your arm, please, Kurt."  
"No. No, it's nothing, I didn't— no. _No_," he protested, hoping to come off as forceful, but he knew Blaine could sense the undertone of hysteria laced in his voice. Blaine moved towards him, but with every step he took towards Kurt, Kurt took one back until he was pressed against his bedroom wall, Blaine's body mere inches from his.

Although Blaine was a bit taller than him, Kurt was still able to count every eyelash that adorned his eyes, study every freckle that speckled the bridge of his nose, and in any other situation wouldn't have minded this position one bit. Given the circumstances however, he silently pleaded for an escape.

Everything seemed to be happening at an impossibly sluggish speed. Gradually, as if trying not to frighten a stray dog, Blaine's right hand found Kurt's left. Kurt simply stood there, unable to move, paralyzed – by what he didn't know, fear? terror? the fact that this was the closest he had ever been to Blaine? – and watched in mounting trepidation as Blaine raised his arm. Normally Kurt would have fought back, obscuring his arm behind him, but something was mesmerizing him and rendering his entire body limp.

Instead, his morbid anticipation was holding him spellbound as Blaine gently pushed the sleeve away from Kurt's wrist. Upon finding his arm hastily covered in the improvised wrap, his eyes flickered briefly to Kurt's, and Kurt held his breath. Blaine pinched the corner of the toilet paper, unraveling it deliberately. Once the crude bandage had fallen to the ground, Blaine turned over Kurt's arm.

Never before had Kurt realized how severe the damage he had done was until he considered what is must have looked like from an outsider's perspective. His skin had once been a flawless, pallid canvas, blank of any disturbances. But eventually it began to reflect the mental damage that incessantly tormented him, until Kurt was just as wounded on the outside as he was on the inside. White, purple, pink, red – a myriad of colors and marks were littered across his arm, each one physical evidence of a time when Kurt had fallen prey to the demons in his mind.

From the very bottom of his palm to the crook in his elbow, slice after slice, mark after mark, scar after scar – to count them would have taken an endless amount of time. Blood was leaking from the fresh cuts, but he made no effort to clean himself up for fear of breaking the silence that held Blaine rapt. As Blaine studied his arm, Kurt studied Blaine. His brows were furrowed, his eyes were moving rapidly up and down, taking in every single wound, his lips were slightly slack in awe – or was it horror at the sight that lay before him?


	5. Why

"I don't understand."

He could feel Blaine's eyes trying to meet his, studying his expression intently, but Kurt refused to reciprocate, instead focusing on remembering how to breathe properly. He felt horribly vulnerable, his deepest, most well-kept secrets on display. He would have felt more comfortable running around McKinley stark naked than having his arms exposed and examined.

Blaine gently tipped Kurt's head up by cupping his chin, and it was then that Kurt's vision began to blur. Blaine's expression was making his heart break, and being forced to lock eyes with him was unbearable; the melancholy that had infested itself into his features strangled Kurt's insides, depriving him of the ability to speak.

Blaine tore himself away from Kurt for a brief moment to retrieve the box of tissues from Kurt's nightstand, and with tender, gentle motions, pressed the tissue to his forearm where the cuts were still bleeding profusely. They stayed like this for several minutes, their breaths in sync and bated. Once the gashes had been tended to, Blaine traced his fingers over the scars that were faded. He ran his fingers along the dips in Kurt's skin, the tiny indentations and raised lines.

"..Why?"

Kurt was crying. He no longer was able to control himself, and the simple interrogative had reduced him to tears, dissolving any self-control that remained. Blaine embraced him, scooping his body into his arms as it shuddered and trembled and shook. He was able to offer no response, except, "I hate myself, I want to die, Blaine. I just want to die."

The boys stood in this position for awhile, the strangled sobs coming from Blaine's shoulder being the only noise that passed between them. Blaine rubbed his back in small, soothing motions until Kurt's sobs had subsided to feeble, pitiful whimpers.

"Kurt…" Blaine said gently.

Kurt whimpered in response.

"This is serious. I won't make you talk about this until you're ready, but you need to understand how severe this is. What if you went too deep? God, Kurt, what if you died? You… you need to try and stop this."

Kurt's eyes flashed violently. He peeled himself off of Blaine, and shook his head.

"No. I'm not going to, I don't want to, I – no, Blaine, I'm not involving you in this. Please just, leave me alone. I don't want help, you can't help me, there's nothing you can do."

"So what do you want me to do? Just stand by and watch you do this to yourself? That's not going to happen. Please, Kurt, just listen to me, you're being irrational –"

"Oh, irrational, am I?" Kurt pried himself from Blaine's arms, stepping back indignantly. "This…this doesn't involve you, I'm fine, piss off and leave me alone. This isn't any of your business."

"Kurt, please –"

"Get out. Leave, - get _out_!" Kurt was frantic. His state of mind was horribly fragile and unstable. He was overreacting, he knew it, but there was no point in allowing himself to grow any closer to Blaine. What was the point, if he would just leave like everyone else? What was the point in getting his hopes up, of allowing himself to be truly happy? What was the point in placing his trust in someone who was merely curious, as opposed to genuinely considerate?

Blaine stepped towards Kurt again, pinning him against the wall, and Kurt flinched instinctively, expecting to be struck. What he didn't expect was for Blaine to swoop in, hesitate momentarily, then press his lips to Kurt's.


	6. Figure Eights

Several days had passed since the first meeting of Kurt and Blaine's lips. Their intricate relationship had developed and strengthened since then, much like the twisted, thorn-encrusted vine of a rose. But there was no doubt that the two boys had become more and more smitten with each other, and in a matter of days it became clear that they were an item.

The day after their kiss however, a Thursday afternoon, the two found themselves after school together after yet another Glee practice run late. As they left from the classroom, Blaine was the first to break the awkward tension between them.

"Kurt?"

"Mhm?"

They found themselves in the same position as before: Kurt stowing his books into his locker, Blaine leaning against the adjoining metal wall, but this time there was no smirk playing at his lips or light darting mischievously between his eyes. He inhaled, possibly sucking in the words he was mustering up the courage to say, and quickly exhaled them all in one breath.

"You know how much I care about you, and I'm sorry for forcing you to show me your arm, and for kissing you, but I just… I don't know, I just want you to be happy."

Kurt's teeth gnawed on his lip subconsciously as he mulled these words over, and chose his own in turn.

"I know… I'm sorry, I really am, for putting you through this. You don't deserve this though, Blaine, you're too… perfect to have to deal with me. I'll try to stop, I really will, but I just… Why me?"

"What do you me—"

"I mean, you could have nearly anyone you wanted. Why did you kiss me? Out of everyone at this hell-hole, why did you choose me?" His insecurities had bubbled to the top, overflowed, and spilled out in the form of words.

"Because, you're just so… I can't describe it. I don't know how to put it into words. I like everything about you. I like how happy you make me, and how you have a phenomenal fashion sense. I like that flip your hair does, and how one of your eyes is a darker shade of blue than the other, and… I don't know, I just really like… you."

x-x-x-x-x

The week after that, a Friday night date had consisted of the two boys sharing a plate of rotini while exchanging anecdotes, a quiet drive back to Kurt's as they squeezed each others' hands and reveled in the comfortable silence, and eventually slipping under a blanket together as they emulated one another's sturdy, tranquil pattern of breathing. Kurt had his arms wrapped around Blaine's torso, one hand resting on his well-defined torso, the other nestled behind his back. His heartbeat had evened out, and he couldn't blame it for being worn-out; after all, it had endured an eventful night too, what with Blaine's smiles sending it into near cardiac arrest every time they made an appearance.

He could feel himself slowly losing hold of reality and slipping from consciousness, a brief hiatus from life that he was readily greeting. Blaine's hand was tracing patterns into Kurt's sleeve, ushering him deeper into unconsciousness. Controlled with a mind of their own, Blaine's fingers ran figure-eights and ovals and swirls and other indistinct shapes up and down Kurt's arm, eventually settling down into the crooks of his hand that seemed to effortlessly match his own. His thumb stroked the edge of his palm, but stopped all of a sudden as the skin beneath him transformed from smooth and supple to jaggedly disfigured.

Careful not to disturb Kurt, Blaine eased his hand from Kurt's and pushed back the sleeve that concealed his secret from prying eyes, open mouths, and closed minds. Flipping his arm over so that his palm was faced towards the ceiling, Blaine squinted through the dark, using the dull light from the TV as a guide to study the newly raised crimson stripes on Kurt's arm. They looked fresh. And deep. Several were even held together with flimsy strips of butterfly tape, as the skin had been split so far apart it was unable to heal properly without some synthetic aid. _Well those certainly weren't there last week._

x-x-x-x-x

When Kurt awoke, it was with a sudden jolt. Disorientated, it took him a minute to register why he felt so cold, then realized it was because Blaine was gone. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it of any traces of leftover sleep, and frantically scanned the room. The glow from the TV illuminated the crumpled indent on the couch, and, running his hand over the still-warm creases left behind, he realized that Blaine couldn't have been gone for long. His phone had been abandoned on a nearby couch cushion, so he had to still be in the house. _Where was he?_

The sound of bumping and rifling and shuffling drew his attention, and he stealthily stole away upstairs, peering into his room and finding a figure hunched over his nightstand, sifting through the drawer.

"B…Blaine?" Kurt flicked on the lights, his suspicions confirmed as the mop of disheveled jet-black hair came into view. "What are you doing?"

It was then that Kurt noticed the pile of sharp objects accumulated on his bed.


	7. White TShirt

Razors. Knives. Glass. Lighters. Scissors.

The weapons were splayed innocently across his duvet. Some were even splattered with flecks of dried blood. The mere sight of them was enough to make Kurt tremble, sending currents of thrill and terror down his spine. He became aware of the sudden intense itch on his arms and unstable mind frame that threatened to give way any second.

"Why are you doing this? You can't—you're not treating me like a child, I'm in high school," Kurt snapped defensively as he realized what Blaine was doing.

"I saw your new cuts," Blaine retorted rather shortly. Kurt flushed, saw his sleeve rolled up, and jerked it back down. Blaine's tone softened slightly. "Kurt, you're not trying hard enough. You need some help, please just let me help you."

Kurt felt a flame of anger surge through him, his irrationality and instability quickly overpowering his common sense as he flung himself at Blaine. Who the hell did he think he was? He advanced towards Blaine, a flurry of swear words spewing out but forming into a stream of brutal, heated sputtering, much like that of a temperamental radiator.

Fortunately for Blaine, years of channeling his anger into the punching bag in his basement had paid off, and it was with pitiable ease that he was able to overpower Kurt, locking him tight in his arms, his anger still flowing freely with no end in sight. All of a sudden, as if a switch had been flipped, Kurt collapsed in his arms, breathless and out of energy. He began to cry.

"Baby, please… please don't cry. It'll be okay, you're so much stronger than this. You're so incredible and beautiful, I wish you would realize that. You are one of the best things that has ever happened to me, you make me so happy, Kurt. God, I wish I knew how to help you get better," he crooned, his arms still locked around Kurt's shivering figure for fear that he might start up again.

Several minutes passed, and eventually Kurt's sobs subsided once again.

"I'm so, so sorry, Blaine. I don't know how you put up with me, I'm out of my mind yet you're always by my side."  
Blaine simply smiled, wiping away his tears with the back of his fingers, and drew him in for a kiss.

"It'll be okay, I promise. You'll be fine. You can make it through this, and I'm here to help you every step of the way. Here, sit down."

He disappeared into the bathroom for a brief moment, re-emerging with a tube of cream that promised to diminish scars and fight infection. Squeezing the contents out onto his finger, he gingerly rolled up the sleeves of Kurt's shirt. Instinctively, Kurt jerked his arm back as the cool air met his skin, but his eyes shot a quick apology to Blaine's as he surrendered and returned it back to Blaine's possession.

Blaine smiled apologetically before rubbing the ointment into the open wounds, ensuring that every crevice was filled with the cream. Kurt winced, inhaling sharply as pain shot through his arm like electric currents. He didn't like this pain. He wasn't in control of it, and if anyone other than Blaine had been the source of it he wouldn't have allowed it to go on. Once his arm was stinging all over however, Blaine relinquished his grasp of Kurt's arm to return the tube back to its home then came back and sat down next to Kurt, who was struggling with rolling his sleeve back down without touching his wounds.

Blaine didn't help him, as was his usual nature, but merely watched Kurt's fingers fumble with the sleeve.

"Kurt?"

He looked up apprehensively and stopped struggling.

"You don't have to wear long sleeves you know… I mean, in front of me at least, if you don't want to. Aren't you hot?" he asked.

The air was stiflingly humid and clogged the room. His windows had been thrown open in the hopes of a nonexistent breeze. Kurt nodded reluctantly, and it was then that Blaine noticed the beads of sweat that dotted Kurt's hairline.

"Here, why don't you change into something more comfortable?"

Blaine swung open Kurt's closet door and after a brief period of rummaging, returned with a simple white t-shirt that looked as though it hadn't been touched in ages – most likely because its owner would be subjected to torture from his peers if he had chosen this simple garb.

"I… I dunno." Kurt gnawed at his lip restlessly.

"Here, I'll help you change," Blaine smiled, and before Kurt could protest, had slipped his hands under the hem of Kurt's shirt and had lifted it to the middle of his torso, his fingers brushing against Kurt's body, pausing to press his lips to Kurt's breathlessly. Kurt was so shocked, he forgot to react, and rather chose to relish in the moment. However, Blaine broke away briefly as his fingers brushed against familiar terrain, and looked down at Kurt's hips. Scars were patterned across the timid bumps that protruded from his body.

"Are these…?" Blaine watched as Kurt nodded and focused on the plush carpet, a blush filling his cheeks with the same consistency in which water fills a container. Kurt quickly separated himself from Blaine and reached for the white shirt that had been laid across his pillow and, facing with his back to Blaine, quickly threw off the shirt and pulled on the white one.

"There. Much better." Blaine's smile, having faltered momentarily, filled up his face again. He ran his hands up Kurt's arms, which had folded themselves into his ribs, and embraced him again, and this time it was awhile before either of them broke away.


	8. Caught

One week.

It had been one week, seven days, one-hundred and sixty-eight hours since Kurt's last self-injury. Sure, he had occasionally flicked a rubber elastic at his wrists until they flushed an angry red, or dug his nails into his skin until vicious purple marks bit into his complexion, but he didn't really consider these tiny indulgences even worth giving a second thought, let alone mentioning.  
Although he made sure to uphold an expression of happiness, serenity, and composure, on the inside he was cracking. He hadn't gone so long without hurting himself in months, and his mentality was taking the toll that wasn't being done to his physical being. He was determined to relapse, and was planning it out carefully – where to do it, what to use, how to hide it, every single detail being taken into consideration. He was only going to be able to do it so many times without Blaine getting angry, and he was unwavering in his determination to make the most of it.

"You ready?" Blaine greeted Kurt as he ducked out of Physics, Mr. Brown's "don't-forget-about-the-test-Monday" and "have-a-good-weekend" pelting his back.

"Of course. I was thinking today we should maybe go to that new frozen yogurt stand after school, I heard someone talking about at lunch today. I figured it would be a nice change from Breadstix," Kurt driveled on aimlessly. They had made it a tradition to celebrate the beginning of every weekend with a date, and so far every Friday they found themselves unable to resist the buttery breadsticks and inexpensive prices that the popular restaurant Breadstix offered.

"Yeah, no problem. Just right after we check –" Blaine began.

Kurt cut him off with a noise that wavered between a sputter and a hiss.

"Can we please just… not do that today? Come on, Blaine, please?"

"I'll be quick, I promise. Here, let's just get it over with right now, come on."

With the potential of a promising Friday at hand, the students of McKinley had fled the school as early as possible, leaving the halls as barren and empty as Sue Sylvester's heart. Except for the occasional briefcase-bearing teacher, or tuba-donning band kid, Kurt and Blaine were quite alone. So when Blaine had dragged an unwilling Kurt into the bathroom, it didn't surprise them to find it vacant as well. Blaine turned to Kurt.

"Come on, let me see," Blaine prodded.

"But this is so _dumb_," Kurt whined. "I haven't in awhile, can't you just take my word for it?"

But despite his objections, Kurt didn't react when Blaine took his arms in his hands. There was something about the way he held them, Kurt couldn't quit describe it, but his touch was enough to send chills through his entire body, or make his heart forget to beat, or twist his tongue into so many knots that forming a sentence was an impossible feat. Having done this so many times before, Blaine's fingers were now skilled at the buttons that fastened his sleeves together, and expertly undid them in seconds. He rolled them up and turned Kurt's arms over, surveying them in silence. Kurt anxiously tore a chunk of skin from his lip with his teeth, but bit back his pain and swallowed his yelp so as not to waver Blaine's concentration. Finally, it appeared he was done.

"I'm so proud of you, babe. I know how much you hate these wrist checks, but you've been doing so well," Blaine beamed.

Kurt plastered a smile on his face as his conscience was suffocated with guilt. _So well_. Ha. Would someone who was doing "so well" plan on mauling their skin the second they were given a free opportunity? Would they fantasize about taking a sharp object to their body every single waking second? Or have nightmares about jumping in front of cars?

"Thanks," he managed.

x-x-x-x-x

_Fag._

Cut.

_Lady._

Slice.

_Queer._

Slit.

A horrible day found Kurt huddled in his stall once again, a shard of glass hovering above the rare patches of blank canvas before tearing in. Every insult, every letdown, every disappointment fueled the vigor behind every violent slice. The razor-sharp shard of glass he had retrieved from a smashed bottle was growing more and more slippery with every slash and harder to hold, but Kurt hardly considered this a reason to stop.

It was 2:25pm. The day had ended twenty minutes ago, and after telling Blaine that he was staying after for Physics help and assuring him that he would catch a ride with Finn, he ducked into room 104. Once he was sure Blaine had gone, he asked Mr. Brown a quick question about kinetic energy then bolted for the bathroom. His sanctuary. The bathroom in the English hallway, third stall from the right, the handicapped stall. He couldn't even begin to recall how many tears had been dried and how much blood had been shed in this cramped, enclosed area.

After several more minutes had gone by, Kurt paused to balance the shard of glass on the top of the toilet paper holder while quickly ripping fistfuls of toilet paper to hold to his arm. Once his arm had been wrapped, he fumbled around in his bag. He had heard his phone vibrate several times as four calls went unanswered, but had had his hands full at the moment.

_Blaine_

_(4) missed calls_

Damn. Balancing his phone on his knee precariously, he sent a single question mark in reply then returned to his wounds, which were continuing to bleed profusely. Deciding it was safe to take the risk, he exited from the stall, leaving his bag behind so that he could rinse off his arm. He felt so at ease, relaxed even, like had physically emptied himself of all his inhibitions and troubles. He felt himself sigh in relief as the water from the dirty tap washed away all evidence that he had been destroying himself. He found a morbid beauty in trying to find familiar images in the patterns that his blood made as it twisted into itself and disappeared down the drawn.

Lost in his own reality, he became so engrossed in this spectacle that he failed to hear the door open.


	9. Talk to Me

Whipping around, Kurt stared into the coffee-brown eyes in fear with an expression that could only be compared to that of a deer in headlights.

"Kurt… Dammit, _no_, Kurt…" Blaine rushed over to the sink and tried to grab Kurt's arm but Kurt yanked it back, spraying the pair with water.

"How – why are you here? You left," Kurt stammered accusingly.

"Yeah, and it's a good thing I came back," he retorted hotly. "I stopped by your house on my way home to drop off one of your binders I had in my bag and Finn was there. He said you told him that I was going to give you a lift home."  
"…How did you know I was here?"

"Babe, I think I know you well enough to know that this is one of the few things you would lie to me about. I asked Mr. Brown if he'd seen you, and he told me you'd run into here."

Kurt's nails bit into his palm. He was embarrassed. Ashamed. Abashed. He'd been caught in the act, and he could feel flushes of crimson filling his cheeks, stark in contrast to his fair skin which had earned him the fond nickname 'Porcelain'. Blaine managed to pry Kurt's arm from behind his back, took note of the fresh blood that was spilling out of the numerous slashes, and, with a demeanor that was almost maternal, began to wash it off under the spigot.

"What happened?"

No response.

"Did someone hurt you?"

Silence.

"Are you okay?"

Nothing.

"God dammit, Kurt!" Blaine's voice rose suddenly in anger. "Do you know how hard this is on me? To walk in and see you doing – doing _this_ to yourself? Do you have any idea how much this is killing me? I'm trying so hard to help you, and I can't even get an answer as to why. You're not the only person who's getting hurt here. How would you feel if I –" he broke off, snatched the glass from the stall, and held it to his bare arm. The bloodied point dug into Blaine's skin but he took no notice.

"What are you _doing_?"

"How would you feel if I started cutting myself?"

"Blaine, stop! _Stop_!"

Kurt swiped at Blaine's hand but missed as he backed away out of Kurt's reach.

"Blaine, stop, please, please don't! Please, Blaine," Kurt pleaded, a note of desperation poignant in his pleas.

"Do you see how it feels? How much it hurts every single time I see a new cut, or even an old scar. Kurt, this is killing me." Blaine's voice broke on the last sentence. His brief flare of frustration died out as suddenly as it started, and he tossed the glass into the trash. He turned his attention back to Kurt's arm which had begun to bleed again, and after some sloppy first-aid, Kurt's arm was encased in the cocoon of thin, white paper.

Once everything had been cleaned up, the two made their way silently to Blaine's car. Blaine grabbed the keys from his pocket, but rather then shove them into the ignition, he rubbed his thumb over the jagged metal, immersed in thought as Kurt surveyed him apprehensively.

"Talk to me," Blaine said at last.

"Wha –"

"Talk to me," he repeated. "Why are you doing this? Please, just talk to me."

Kurt's reluctance at this request was evident in his facial expression and nails that scrabbled unconsciously at his wrists.

"What do you want to know? There's nothing to talk about."  
Blaine snorted. "I think we have plenty to talk about. Let's start with this: when did it start?"

"A few years ago. Seventh grade, I think."

"Do you always do it in school?"

"Er… Sometimes. If I need to."

"Why? Why do you do this to yourself?"

Kurt's eyes were locked with a smudge on the windshield as the scratching at his arms became more frantic. Red crescents marked up his hands and wrist. Realizing this, Blaine grabbed Kurt's offending hand into his own and squeezed it.

"I don't know. It's the only way I like to deal with things. It's like being hungry; it never goes away, it always returns eventually, and the longer you go without it the more you crave it. Whenever I'm sad or empty or angry or even happy I want to hurt myself. I just have these horrible urges and I don't know why or how to control them, so I don't bother trying to, I just give in."

It took Kurt a minute to realize what he'd said – the words had tumbled out before he had a chance to stop them – and even he seemed to be slightly shocked.

"Babe, look at me," Blaine said, taking Kurt's other hand in his. "You are going to beat this. We are going to beat this together, I am going to help you. I'm not letting you go through this alone, I care about you too much. I know you're hurting right now, but it will get better, I promise, Kurt."

With this proclamation out in the open, Blaine didn't hesitate to lean forward and press his lips to Kurt's. This kiss was different however; Kurt was no longer guarded, his walls were slowly coming down, and there was an air of trust between them that hadn't existed before.

As a smile crept onto his lips and his head swam with conflicting emotions, Kurt wondered if this was what love felt like.


End file.
